


Nightclub Nirvana

by rumpndump



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Eventual Smut, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revised Version
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpndump/pseuds/rumpndump
Summary: This is a copy-paste from my old Tumblr Account.The pacing is strange, because the original posts were few and far between, but I didn't want to lose the workSenseless Smut in Chapter 2





	1. Rick in Need

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a request on my original Tumblr blog (rumpndump), which I'm transferring here now.  
> I've since revised it so, enjoy!

Against the inviting rattle of the nightclub's booming bass, Flesh chose to sit far in the back at the bar—lost on his unnumbered beer alone.   
Low grey shadows dipped into his features, etching out detailed descriptions of the pain he drank away, with his mood somber and repulsive to the other Ricks near. They moved away, some more discretely than others, and left him alone with the bartender who too had chosen to occupy himself with other things in the back. Though he had come here to get away from his thoughts, he instead found himself drinking full circle into the source of his stress as the familiar tunes of music played in the background. Flesh cringed to himself, glaring down at the bottle in hand.   
By now, the empty side of it began to look sickening and for a moment, he thought he would be. The flood of thoughts he tried desperately to flush away with the fuzzy fickle that is this liquid depression now flushed to the forefront of his mind. And to no surprise, he found himself face-down on the counter—bottle loosely held in his hand as he hid his despairs from odd-some eyes of prying Ricks.

Flesh's silent drowning didn't last, however. Before he realized it, the warmth of a strong hand grasped tightly to his bare shoulder and hoisted him up from his lazy lay. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Flesh snapped his head upward and saw the blurry blue and pink electric lights on the wall as a voice growled in his ear, "if ya' had one too many, take yourself elsewhere. I don't like sleepers at my party."  
He rubbed his eyes to still the spinning room, then looked up to the Rick disturbing him. But he was met by the reflection of his own pitiful-self in some oddly colored shades. The Rick wearing them donned brightly colored clothes to match, which Flesh distinctly recognized as that of Miami—the club owner—who was peering at him with a quirked brow and an unreadable expression.

"W..." Flesh belched, "what?" Miami glared down at the poor bastard whose eyes were glossy and red. It was an all-too-telling sign that only a Rick like him could recognize. Any other may have thought this guy couldn't handle his tokes, but that glassy gaze of a drunkenly-sober Rick was hard to miss for a Rick like Miami. And even when he stuffed his free hand in his pocket and let out a graveled groan deep within his chest, as though inconvenienced by the matter, Miami's concealed eyes looked him over and then eyed a door from across the club.

"Party too hard, Rockstar?" Though it was an obvious jab at the state of Flesh, Miami let go and watched the too-drunk bastard sway suddenly and barely catch himself on the bar. Miami's hand fell to his side with a curt nod, as if confirming something to himself, before motioning for the other to follow and turning on his heels to walk away. 

Confused, Flesh watched the other lead on and cross the threshold of the club. It took him a few moments to gather himself, but eventually found his own feet to stand on. But when he attempted a few strides forward, Flesh wobbled slightly and tripped over the heaviness of his boots—which were much more difficult to control now than before. He stumbled forward and fell, whimpering quietly and preparing to catch himself face-first on the edge of a bar stool-   
But it never happened. There was a cool wrap of tight fabric cradling his chest for a split second, before he was yanked up by his loose shirt onto his feet again. "Alright," Miami's voice grumbled. "Let's go Skid Row—we gotta get you sobered up before you go home." 

"What?" Flesh hiccuped. "No, I'd- that's why I'm h- _urp_ , here. I don't want to go—"

"Yeah yeah," Miami hushed. Yanking Flesh along by the shirt, he said, "don't fight me on this, Bon Jovi—just accept the help. I-I know we're Ricks and all, but take some advice from yourself once in awhile, okay?"

"Whatever," Flesh grumbled out. His feet stumbled forward as he was tugged along, with his body swaying from one side to the other no matter how hard he tried to walk in a straight line. His head lulled down and he watched the swing of his hand with the bottle in tow—fingers curled nimbly around the neck and refusing to let go. His mind was dizzy, and lost in the mundane stress of himself as he followed along. For a moment, he looked up to eye Miami with question, confused why the Rick bothered in the first place. Though he had heard rumors of Miami being... helpful, Flesh never experienced it himself. And admittedly, he was very doubtful this would be considered 'help' in the first place. 

Ricks don't help other Ricks.   
Not in Flesh's experience.

* * *

 

From the bar to the door, and now up several flights of stairs, Miami and Flesh made their way far above the thunderous roar of bass and rhythm. 

It happened all too quickly and all too slowly at the same time. Flesh had never seen a place like this before—a place where big boss sits and watches his loyal attendees like some God watching his creations. Admittedly, he was never curious about it to begin with, but his mind couldn't help but take a hazy note of this moment. There was a stark contrast between the Synthwave-style club below and the homely dwelling just above. 

It was... surreal, almost. 

The office Miami owned was very... comfortable; a place Flesh would  _want_ to be rather than that seedy chair at the bar.   
Most of the office was decorated with home appliances: a couch set and coffee table on one side, next to a set of cabinets and cocktail fridge just below them— _classy_ was the only word he could muster. A great rug stretched over dark wood flooring and underneath the furniture. Paintings and record labels covered the walls, and on the other side of the wide room sat a desk and filing cabinets. Surely this was a dream, Flesh considered. The place smelled sweetly of home and was dipped in the afterglow of a freshly smoked cigarette. Just entering the office made him feel... relaxed. Which he felt in the way his shoulders dipped as he was left to linger there at the door. 

"Make yourself at home, Rockstar," Miami said as he moved toward the cocktail fridge. 

"Why..." Flesh drew out.

"Like I said," Miami rummaged through the fridge and yanked out a lonesome bottle of chilled whatever. Along with it, he snatched a couple of glasses and turned back to Flesh, who still loomed in the doorway like a tired ghost. "Take some advice from yourself once in awhile. I'd know a Ri- _urp_ , Rick like you a mile away." 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Flesh finally willed himself enough to move toward the couch. His bottle was still in hand as he forced himself forward, moving with shaky legs that dragged black boots across the floor. 

"I've been there," Miami said nonchalantly, "done that. Just tell me this: do you have it in with your Beth or what?" He had long since beaten Flesh to the couch, greeting the slower of the two with the snap and screw of a new bottle being opened. Though Miami already knew the answer, he always dared to ask. Too many years did he run this nightclub, and too many Ricks existed with that possible side-effect of infinite possibility.  

As Miami poured two shots, he heard the disgusted snort from the man who set his bottle down a little too hard and replied, "what? No, it's- it's nothing like tha- _urp_ , that. It's not even-.... It's not important, honestly." 

"Not important?" Miami uttered in disbelief, "bro, you look like a Rick ready to jump in front of the ne- _urp_ , next train to God." Rolling his eyes, he then said, "let me guess, and you can tell me if I'm right or if I'm right."   
Flesh shrugged and glared at Miami, but only caught glimpses of his own sot state. Miami laid back on the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table with one shot in hand. He slowly slid the other glass to his guest, looking over Flesh again and waiting. He noticed the choker first, followed by the leather cuffs. His shirt drooped deeper than it should and his vest barely covered even his shoulders, and his tight-fitting jeans wrapped... rather nicely around everything else. Even if that was the most clothed this Rick got, it was still so explicit in its intentions. "I'd say..." he hummed, "whatever's got you down doesn't matter. You need to learn to relax."   
Flesh, who had been reaching for his glass, stopped and looked to him with real confusion—having expected a real answer. Miami snorted and laughed at him. 

"That's not-" 

"It doesn't matter what it is, Rolling Stones," Miami drew out his words as he sat up. He lifted the drink to Flesh's lips, who felt the cold liquid slip into his mouth. Miami grinned as Flesh took the glass from him and swallowed, "I'm a Rick, just like- _urp_ , just like you! Almost every Rick has (or had) a Diane or Dante or whatever, and almost all of them realized Ricks are toxic entities. It's a universal- uh... universal constant—like every Rick being a Rick or every Beth being a Beth.  
A lot of the time, Ricks and Dianes argue after _some_ realize the influence Ricks have over their kids, and then all those Ricks come here trying to drink themselves into a conclusion. And you know what that is?" 

"...why." 

"Because Ricks  _care_ about their kids." Flesh grimaced at the words, feeling them enter his mind with a sense of sobriety. 

"Your point?" he asked, clearly irritated. To Miami, Flesh began to appear more frustrated than somber, which was a start to Miami. A depressed Rick is a dangerous Rick, to himself and others alike. 

"My point is, R&R," he gulped down his shot and leaned forward to pour another. "You think your problems are unique, when in reality they're far from it. Why both- _urp_ , bother when you can have a shot? When you can relax?" Miami raised his second shot to Flesh, and grinned even wider when Flesh eventually broke his dead-gaze facade and rose his glass to meet the other's.   
There was nothing he could do about his situation at home, and by this point in time he couldn't bring himself to wrack his brain trying anymore. All he could do is relax in the company of himself, and the soon-to-be depleted bottle on the table. After the first shot went down with some burn, the second one coated over and numbed the rest of his senses. And soon enough, Flesh propped his feet up along with Miami, tossing back his third- fifth- seventh shot and laughed. For the first time that night, he laughed. 

Maybe this Rick was onto something. 

 


	2. Relax Rick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S M U T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's smut.  
> There's nothing but smut here.  
> I'm not really sorry.

As the night drew on, Flesh and Miami found themselves three-fourths into the bottle.  
The two were lost in the company of each other and the foggy room, thickly scented by a delicious joint they shared. Clouds of smoke filled in gaps where air would normally be, as they lounged on the couch with their legs intertwined in a lazy, carefree lay. Flesh coughed over his shoulder, letting out the last of his smoke-filled lungs before glancing up to a clearly high-Miami. How long had they been like this—wrapped up with each other and hot boxing an entire office? It's not that he had a problem with it, he simply was only ever more curious of Miami's intentions. And that curiosity grew into the form of a tired grin and groggy question being asked before he thought about it.

"So," he drew out, "...what made you decide to help a Rick like me out anyway?" The fuzzy warmth of alcohol blanketed him in a sense of security, even if his head spun all the same. Through the dizzy haze of a relaxing high, he shared it in good company of Miami, who sat up and rubbed at his eyes. Miami's shades had since been set on the arm of the couch, letting Flesh spy at the whole of Miami's tired face. The man was an experienced Rick, one that had been around in this citadel since the beginning.  
And now in these moments, Flesh could watch as Miami too spied at him in return, eyes trailing over the exposed body of Flesh. Miami's eyes traced the deep dip of his blue shirt, which exposed the hair of his chest—stopping just short of his navel—and soon, he lingered on the black leather pants Flesh donned. Miami's eyes stopped at the belt buckle of a skull, wrapped up in his thoughts as if thinking of what to say.

Miami finally looked up to Flesh to see he was looking right back at him, and smiled slyly. The question had almost fallen mute on Miami, who simply replied, "I didn't." Flesh quirked a brow inquisitively and held out a lanky arm to the pompous Rick. Between his fingers held the roach of a joint they shared, which Miami accepted quickly and thoughtlessly. He then said, "I can't have a tense Rick at my party of one. It's a real, uh... real let down, ya' feel?"  
He shifted in his spot on the couch, smoking through the roach before snubbing it out. As he did, he looked over to Flesh and found the man as relaxed as he could be. His eyes were shut, one hand lazy buried in his hair while the other rested on his stomach. And once again Miami found his eyes trailing over the man's body, and stilling almost as soon as he found pink nubs peeking from under the shirt and nipping in the cool air. Truly Flesh knew he looked like a delicious treat needing to be unwrapped, that's what his whole gimmick was about—his low-cut shirt and too-tight jeans were all for show for his shows. But nevertheless, Miami found himself crawling over to the other and towering above him. That's when Flesh peeked at him to see what Miami was doing, and stiffened when he found Miami hovering so close. Miami's lips were nearly touching his, and he felt a gentle but encouraging tug of Miami's thumb prying his mouth open. In that instance, Flesh hesitated. His body grew tense. And when Miami insisted, pulling the bottom of Flesh's lip down, Flesh complied and opened his mouth.  
Nervousness rushed through Flesh when he realized what Miami was doing. Miami's chest was full and pressing into his, restricting his breath. The warm body above consumed him in a rising heat, and he felt his mouth closed against the other's. His lungs filled up with the hot, smoky taste of pot from Miami's breath as he swallowed it all quickly. It was then followed by a short, sloppy kiss that left Flesh's head spiraling. But when Flesh tried to push Miami away—trying to break for air—he was met by a low growl. Miami moved to straddle Flesh properly, wrapping his hands around his neck and holding him there tightly. At first, Flesh didn't fight the motion. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.

But then his lungs began to burn, and quickly deprived themselves of any oxygen he may have held.

When he realized he couldn't move, Flesh began to struggle more. His body squirmed under Miami as he tried to break the kiss, becoming more insistent and rash. Miami eventually complied, but not without tightening his hold around Flesh's neck, leaving the man at the mercy of Miami's desires. And Miami watched as Flesh held tightly to his wrists, pushing away desperately as his body bucked and thrust beneath him. Every failing attempt made on Flesh's part fell more and more alluring to Miami, who wanted to keep him this way just a little longer. The feeling of Flesh buckling under him was exciting, and the look of absolute need painted across his face was just icing on top. He watched Flesh's body rush with panic and felt his thrusts become more erratic. His kneading on Miami's wrists turned to scratching, his fingers quivering with a plea. Then, his body began to feel weak; Flesh's eyes began to look distant and hazy, as if his vision was focusing into one finite point in thin air.   
For a moment, Flesh thought he would pass out. And Miami was tempted to just let him. He didn't. Instead, he let go of Flesh and felt his body jolt forward in a coughing fit. Flesh gasped for air, groaning beneath Miami as he rubbed at his sore neck. Part of Flesh wanted to shove Miami away, but the other part felt so vibrant and alive in that moment. His lungs filled with air and rejoiced sorely, and his body ached with a pulse. There was a tension there that Flesh couldn't quite place; it was a strange feeling, almost like a tingling of muscles waking up, and he felt his fleeting heart hot and flustered for more. Between deep breaths, Flesh coughed out, "a fucking- warning would be nice—" 

"I wouldn't have gotten this if I did that," Miami ground his hips down and listened as Flesh's breath hitched. And without thinking, Flesh bucked in return, watching Miami's grin grow wicked. Miami leaned in and whispered playfully, "let me help you out, Rockstar...."

* * *

Whatever line there may have been between cheating and masturbating had long since blurred.

Desperate moans filled the room as Flesh lay on his back, painted in his own mess with Miami working him relentlessly on his cock. Flesh's mouth hung open, drool painting his cheek as he let out long, continuous moans and incoherent pleas for mercy. But Miami held tight to his thighs—legs draped over his shoulders—and thrusted into the pliant body below him. He was lost in the feeling of Flesh's willing body accepting him, pulling him back in for more and quivering every time he pulled away. He moaned under his breath, pushing deeper and deeper to fill more of Flesh's heat with an unforgiving rhythm.

"God," Miami groaned. Between thrusts he said, "you feel too good- fuck, I can't get enough of you...."  
Miami moved to press Flesh's knees toward his chest. He dug his nails into the man's wrists, holding them down on either side of his body, and pushed in just a little deeper than before. This left Flesh to pour over heavy, heady moans and relish in the feeling of being _used_.

"Fuck—" Flesh hitched. His ragdoll-body let itself be twisted and folded as Miami pleased; his glassy eyes looked out at nothing as he felt himself being filled to the brim over and over again. Miami stretched him so sweetly, blowing his mind without even trying. Pleasure and pressure built up inside him, and became all too much to handle. All over again, Flesh's cock visibly twitched, teetering toward another orgasm- _again, "fuck—fuck—"_  
The sensation of tightening hugged close to his body, and he bucked into Miami more and more—low moans turned into high-pitched cries until-

He gasped.

Flesh's body jumped at a new sensation around the base of his cock.  
He couldn't- _he couldn't cum._

Flesh let out a confused whimper before a tight, unyielding choke wrapped around his throat again. It held him in place, and Miami's body stilled... then stopped. Flesh's eyes snapped up to the man above him, wide and startled with concern. But in return, he received a cold, unforgiving glare above him. Flesh snatched Miami's wrist around his throat instantly, and pushed forcefully to ease his choking. Unable to move—his body was pinned in place by Miami, who had buried himself as deeply as he could go. Flesh could feel the pulsing of Miami's cock inside him. It throbbed and twitched a need to release, just as he was in Miami's other hand.

"You're so damn needy," Miami murmured cruelly. "How many times have you cum now?" His voice was strikingly sober and painted with something sinister. Flesh felt his heart thump painfully in his chest, and his blood ran cold. "Look at you..." Miami hummed, rocking into him again. He ground against a delightful bundle of nerves that puppeteered Flesh to writhe in pleasure helplessly. "How many times, baby?"

"F—Four," he mouthed.

"And you still want more?" Miami whispered excitedly. He pressed especially hard against that delicious spot, watching Flesh unravel so perfectly beneath him. Flesh took no time to answer, nodding as best he could. Then, all too quickly, Miami's cold expression vanished and a wide grin grew on his face. He stopped moving all together and simply said, _"show me."_  
Keeping his grip tight around Flesh's neck, he felt as the man below began grinding against him. He could feel Flesh's heart race beneath his hand as his body strained to move. Flesh could feel his body going numb, and all too quickly was becoming dizzy and disoriented. His mind swam as he rocked against the other, trying to fuck himself through his drifting mind. Sound was beginning to drown out by rushing blood in his ears, and his eyes eventually rolled back behind his lids. His mouth fell open with a poor attempt to gasp for air, and Miami watched as he fell apart and began to drift into the depths of unconsciousness. Only then when Flesh's hands fell to either side of his body, chest and hips convulsing with every numbing tingle, did Miami let go. And when he let go, white consumed Flesh's vision suddenly as a hot, flooding burn filled his insides and painted his stomach. His ears were ringing, his body spasming and his lungs filled quickly only to cry out Miami's name. 

Everything rushed him all at once—oxygen, pleasure, the heat of Miami inside him—and his thighs trembled as Miami continued to push into him even after his initial throes of orgasm ebbed.

"Please—" Fleshed rasped out. His head spun, "fuck, please- I—I need," he breathed quickly, " _God_."  
He heard Miami groaning as his hips slowed, and Flesh let out a quiet sigh of pure relief. He could feel his nerve endings twitch with something electrifying, as Miami slowly pulled away. He lowered Flesh's legs down onto the couch before resting on his knees on the floor, draping his body over the other and basking the sweaty heat of the two. He listened to Flesh's heart slow until it was something normal, then fidgeted in the afterglow of his own climax. 

"You did so good for me baby," Miami eventually sighed.  
As sweet as those words were, they fell deaf of Flesh, who was already slipping into unconsciousness. Miami looked up to find that the half-asleep man gave an incoherent response before the first snore slipped out. Miami smirked as he pulled himself away and left to clean up their mess.

* * *

 

The rest of the night blurred to Miami, who spent the last bit of it cleaning.   
Miami picked up the two shot glasses and near-empty bottle, and draped his pink coat over Flesh, watching the man curl into its already-existing warmth. All the while, he thought hard about who Flesh was as a Rick, where he fell on the Rick-scale of good and bad. He even rummaged through the man's belongings, finding his wallet with pictures of his own Beth and Diane in their current affairs. He and Diane were married, and Beth was only eight at best. 

This Rick had a life of his own—one Miami deduced would do anything to hold onto it. His Beth was growing up, and his Diane only wanted what was best for their family. And Flesh... 

Flesh was a Rick all the same. 

There wasn't much to say besides that. 

Ricks are Ricks. No Rick ever dedicates themselves to a Diane, and the ones that do suffer the most. For Flesh, it was only a matter of time before he joined the rest of the Ricks. He wasn't as dedicated to Diane as he may have deluded himself into believing—tonight proved that—and he was willing to escape by any means necessary, even if it meant their first argument had him turning to a bar in a completely different dimension. Flesh would eventually spiral toward the self-made Rick that Ricks were meant to be, and possibly sooner than later, Miami thought.  
Miami poured himself one last glass to wash it all down, as he watched his empty nightclub rest with the rising morning. Golden casts of light poured through the doors, dulling the neon-colors inside. Miami gave a gentle sigh and sipped from the glass as he watched on, leaving Flesh to slumber peacefully far behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the pacing for this is really weird, and I'm sorry about that.  
> The posts on Tumblr were far between and I was just throwing them out there at the time.  
> Let me know what you think, though—if I had the time, I'd rather slow the pacing down and let things build.


	3. Bittersweet Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extremely short chapter, ouf.

 Since last night, Miami has taken a liking to Flesh. 

In fact, he finds the man oddly... intriguing for a Rick. Through his honest thoughts, Miami could say that Flesh was a fairly stand-up guy, who was ready to life his life with the two most important things at his side: his wife, and his daughter. Though he had a knack for science, he wasn't as indulged as the other Ricks were, and probably wouldn't find out that it was his burning passion until much later in life. 

Or so Miami assumed.

Yet even if Miami knew better than most Ricks, he couldn't help but admire the passion Flesh had to hold onto better things. Then again, all Ricks had that kind of fire early in life. Things were new to Ricks, and Ricks were young and stupid. Up until this point, teleportation was a billion-dollar idea to be had, but now they were here, hoarding away the only secret to becoming the most powerful being in the universe. Instead, Ricks opted to become the most powerful  _man_ in the multiverse. And Flesh was no different.   
Yet, his desire to keep his life together was palpable, as any Rick could recall it being their own at one point. Miami could agree by that ideology, having relished in the sweet, brief rush of love he had several years ago. That was a chemically ignited high that kept every Rick tied down at least once—granted, it was fleeting. Ricks could only chase it so far, before the better of their minds caught up to them and they realized it was something only good once and to be lost next. And for a brief moment, it pained Miami to think that Flesh would realize that so soon too.   
  


Smoke billowed toward the ceiling as Miami watched Flesh from across the room. He let out a fogged breath, taking the time to admire the sunrise before turning his attention to the rousing body on the couch. Miami peeked over his shoulder, finding Flesh slowly sitting up—head heavy and hanging low from his assumed-hangover. The man was shirtless, body scarred in various places across his back and around his shoulders—some of those scars looked old; some looked new. His hair was a frazzled mess, which Flesh smoothed out with his calloused fingers, his voice was low and gravelly when he groaned.  
As he woke, Miami slipped off the edge of his desk and wandered aimlessly toward the other. He sat down a glass of whiskey on the coffee table, and slapped the bare shoulder of Flesh with a sigh. "It's about time, Rockstar." Sitting down next to the stirring body, Flesh eyed the glass a bit sickly before looking away. Apparently, he was not in the hardy-drinking mood like before. "So..." Miami lulled his head back and rested his arms on either side of the couch, "what's the plan, Rolling Stones?" 

"... what?"

"Are you going home? Or at least thinking about it?" 

"... home?" the question lingered on his mind before he shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. "Oh," he groaned, "yeah—of course I am. Why wouldn't I?" 

"Well," Miami mused, "some Ricks don't. They don't see a reason in going back." 

"What?" Flesh felt appalled, looking to Miami with a contorted face of disgust. "Why?" 

"Why else?" Miami shrugged, "it shouldn't be too hard to figure out, R&R you are a Rick after all." 

"What is  _that_ supposed to mean?" Miami rose a corner of his brow, catching the whole of the man's irritation. What was he upset about?

"Hey, don't snap at me bro, it's your decision. I'm just laying it out there—you shouldn't be surprised that some versions of you haven't left the citadel."   
Flesh simply stared at him, glaring with question. Miami stared back coolly, his expression disinterested and dismissive. Eventually, he propped a foot up on the coffee table and rested his hands behind his head. With a heavy sigh, Miami explained, "almost every Rick has a Diane—or Dante or whatever—and almost every one of them come here day-in and day-out after some argument or another. You're not the first to enter my club like this, Rick, and you won't be the last. Some Ricks realize that they're better off without the burden of the other, and just stay here." 

Flesh accused, "so you think I'm like the rest of those- half-brained assholes?!" 

"That's really no way to talk about yourself,  _Nirvana_." Miami snapped back, "you realize how many Ricks come here and drink themselves in a spirograph? They wrack their brains over whether they should stay or go—your problems aren't unique. Not to you or the rest of the other yous out there. Dianes realize Ricks are too toxic and influence their daughters in the worst possible way, and Ricks? Ricks realize they're too damn smart for the rest of the world. The only person who can clearly understand them is, well, themselves. Why the fuck else do you think this place exists?"   
Flesh sat silently, feeling sick. Miami watched him, glaring back at his mirrored-self, who stood up hastily and grabbed his clothes. As he began throwing them on, Miami said, "my point is—Flesh—you came here. You came here like any other Rick would, and drank yourself in circles trying to figure yourself out; if it's worth it. You don't want to face the reality that love is just some chemical reaction that got you to breed, and now you have a responsibility to a daughter. One that even Diane doesn't want you to influence by being the half-wit you are for buying into those primitive instincts of yours to protect. Every Rick around here—every single one of them that is like you—believe their daughters are the most important thing to them  _now_. But what they won't accept is that they won't be when it pays more to be a selfish-bastard."  

Flesh stopped suddenly, eyes wide and angry at the other Rick. What kind of bastard could say something so disgusting about their own kid? Beth was only a  _child_. Maybe she was someone who deserved better in life than what Flesh could offer—but he would damn well try. Yet Miami stared him him so dismissively, as if he knew Flesh would leave. He knew Flesh would try to prove him wrong—and if anything, prove his point—but he would be back. He'd be back here in the bar, possibly in this very room, pouring his guts over the most recent argument they had. And he would become more agitated with his home-life before Flesh would finally choose to leave.   
Perhaps that was a difficult pill to swallow—knowing certain lives would be better off without you—but it was what Ricks could do if they really cared. And Flesh would figure it out. 

"Maybe for you," Flesh finally spit as he pulled his vest around his shoulders. He then snagged out his portal gun and opened a new doorway back home. "Maybe I'm a different kind of Rick." 

"Sure," Miami waved off. Without another word, Flesh passed through the green swirling mass and Miami breathed heavily, "let me know how that works out for ya'."   
The words were laced with venom, obviously bothered by the reproach Flesh had for him. But the man disappeared in the swirl of viscous slime, and Miami sipped at his amber colored booze and was left alone to his own company once again, "I'll be waiting." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is just as short—if not shorter. I don't recall if I ever intended to add more to it, but I'll finish up this old rewrite and move on to the next. :b   
> Let me know what ya'll think!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
